Brighter Discontent
She stood in the monochrome, afraid to go into colour. Somehow, the black and white seemed to make everything that much simpler, as she grew weary of making decisions that offered hope. She stood in the dark, terrified of the light that might penetrate her eyes, blinding her from the raven, from the reaper, from the mad scientist and from the dark haired boy. Hollow white eyes stared into hers of a stagnated nature, as if time stood still by choice and could not go on.
The murder of crows glided in a calm descend towards the graveyards, each stone freed from the choices of the world and stood strong in grey. She envied them. A gentle rain of corrosion fell from the static sky, and she thought that no sunshine would ever take away this rain. Her shadow stood in mocking, and she felt happy, because, as she grew to die, her shadow had found speech, and would remain long after her body became food for worms.
She was consumed by her thoughts that transcended far beyond imaginative horizons; a blessing and a cruel curse. What images she conjured up would offer a goblet of hope, and once drank, the poison would seep stealthily through her veins, and bring her down to the ground in a lifeless tumble. The process would be complete. No, it would not. She would rise. She would live again. She would drink again.
An unkindness of ravens pierced her gaze with their spotted eyes, bidding her to contemplate her existence that was fast fading into the mists encapsulating the cemetery. Nameless names, thought she, and a comfort of familiarity rushed in. Perhaps, this was home, this was where she would sleep in serenity. And she would be happy. No, she would not. For the dead cannot feel, and time can go on.
She reserved no hope for herself, and when one had no hope, one had to hope for others. In their failures and disappointments, she faced an excruciating disintegration; her very being breaking up one by one into fragments of what used to be. In their neglect and scorn, she started dying, for she had nothing else to live for. They lived in abundance of colour and life, of parties and dinners, movies and theatres, adultery and incest, love and hate. She lived a forgotten life.
Perhaps in her, there was regret. Perhaps, there was anger, maybe even wrath. One might think that there was envy and jealousy, monsters that fed on her meat, and possibly there was a hint of loneliness. But about all, there was a nothingness; an absence of being.
Now, as the moon graciously brightened up the monochrome, she could see her hands filled with a tapestry of cuts. Her legs, as the contours of uncertainty, lay bruises and deformities. In the still water, she could see her reflection, as an intense paleness greeted her, dark droplets tearing down her face. She could see that her hair lay in a witchy frizzle, as a bitter cold wind blew in from the south.
In the moonlight, in the darkness, in the graveyard, in the monochrome, in black, and in white, she could finally see how beautiful she was.
The murder of crows glided in a calm descend towards the graveyards, each stone freed from the choices of the world and stood strong in grey. She envied them. A gentle rain of corrosion fell from the static sky, and she thought that no sunshine would ever take away this rain. Her shadow stood in mocking, and she felt happy, because, as she grew to die, her shadow had found speech, and would remain long after her body became food for worms.
She was consumed by her thoughts that transcended far beyond imaginative horizons; a blessing and a cruel curse. What images she conjured up would offer a goblet of hope, and once drank, the poison would seep stealthily through her veins, and bring her down to the ground in a lifeless tumble. The process would be complete. No, it would not. She would rise. She would live again. She would drink again.
An unkindness of ravens pierced her gaze with their spotted eyes, bidding her to contemplate her existence that was fast fading into the mists encapsulating the cemetery. Nameless names, thought she, and a comfort of familiarity rushed in. Perhaps, this was home, this was where she would sleep in serenity. And she would be happy. No, she would not. For the dead cannot feel, and time can go on.
She reserved no hope for herself, and when one had no hope, one had to hope for others. In their failures and disappointments, she faced an excruciating disintegration; her very being breaking up one by one into fragments of what used to be. In their neglect and scorn, she started dying, for she had nothing else to live for. They lived in abundance of colour and life, of parties and dinners, movies and theatres, adultery and incest, love and hate. She lived a forgotten life.
Perhaps in her, there was regret. Perhaps, there was anger, maybe even wrath. One might think that there was envy and jealousy, monsters that fed on her meat, and possibly there was a hint of loneliness. But about all, there was a nothingness; an absence of being.
Now, as the moon graciously brightened up the monochrome, she could see her hands filled with a tapestry of cuts. Her legs, as the contours of uncertainty, lay bruises and deformities. In the still water, she could see her reflection, as an intense paleness greeted her, dark droplets tearing down her face. She could see that her hair lay in a witchy frizzle, as a bitter cold wind blew in from the south.
In the moonlight, in the darkness, in the graveyard, in the monochrome, in black, and in white, she could finally see how beautiful she was.
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